


you give your hand to me

by windfalling



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfalling/pseuds/windfalling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Reddington is bent over an old CD player, looking through the cases. Liz smiles, thinking of the other rooms they’ve stayed at, of how delighted he would be when he would spot a turntable, mourning or praising the music selection. The CD player is no turntable, but he still gravitates to it. </i>
</p><p><i>“It’s late,” she says softly. “What are you doing?”</i> </p><p>A collection of unrelated scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. for sentimental reasons

**Author's Note:**

> so, this is basically just me archiving my prompt fills for a writing meme over on tumblr. it was supposed to be a collection of drabbles, but apparently i have no self-control or capability to be precise, so--here we are!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "love me." title from nat king cole's (i love you) for sentimental reasons, which was one of the songs on a playlist i was listening to while writing this, haha.

She comes out of the bedroom to the sound of music playing from the living room.

It is their first night here; by tomorrow, they will be gone. They never stay in one place for long, not with the FBI at their heels, not with all the eyes on them.

Reddington is bent over an old CD player, looking through the cases. Liz smiles, thinking of the other rooms they’ve stayed at, of how delighted he would be when he would spot a turntable, mourning or praising the music selection. The CD player is no turntable, but he still gravitates to it. 

“It’s late,” she says softly. “What are you doing?”

He pops out the CD currently playing and inserts another one. The music begins again—a slow, lilting jazz piece that gradually diffuses through the room. He turns around to face her, swaying slightly with the beat. “Unwinding,” he responds, looking so at ease and relaxed that she isn’t sure how much more he  _can_  unwind. “It’s been a long day, don’t you think?”

She arches an eyebrow when he moves toward her. He starts to mouth along with the lyrics, and she laughs despite herself. He smiles. Reddington holds his hand out, tilting his head.

Liz hesitates. There is still so much they have to do, people to meet, calls to make. They have been in constant movement; sometimes, it seems as if there will never be an end to this.

His hand falters.

It can wait until morning, she decides, and takes his hand. He leads her to the centre of the room, and she can’t help think of the other time they danced like this, so long ago. They aren’t undercover this time—no fancy attire and no ballrooms, just a small apartment with peeling wallpaper and stolen clothes. So many things have happened since then, she thinks. She has no house, no dog, no husband—

“Lizzy,” he says gently, and she brings herself back to the present. His eyes have not left hers; he looks at her with open affection and a hint of concern. His voice echoes in her mind:  _You have me._

She closes her eyes and rests her head on his shoulder. He tenses briefly, then presses a kiss to her temple, lingering for a second too long. She lets the music loosen her limbs, and she thinks of nothing but the warmth of his hand on her back and the sound of his voice as he hums along.


	2. call me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "call me," with liz being wounded.

The moment she realizes it’s a set-up, it’s too late.

Seconds before the blast, she sees Reddington on the other side of the room, his head moving toward her, eyes wide with the same realization. She screams his name just as his mouth goes to form hers—

The explosion slams her against the wall.

-

Liz wakes to the rhythmic beeping of a monitor and a tangle of tubing hooked up to her wrist. She lifts her hand, following the line of the IV to the bag, and looks around. The room is empty. There’s a chair pulled up to the side of her bed. There are medical devices surrounding her, too, but the room looks more like an unfinished basement than a hospital, and it doesn’t have that antiseptic smell to it, either.

Of course she wouldn’t be at a hospital, she thinks. The FBI and the Cabal would have found them, and Reddington would not have let that happen—

 _Red._  Her memory comes back in a rush as the monitor fills the room with the sound of her panicked heart. The eerie silence of the building, the twisting feeling in her stomach that something was off, Reddington moving to the other side of the room, the look on his face and the blast, and he isn’t here, and what if this is like last time, that fake hospital with the fake doctor, what if they’ve been captured, what if he’s—

_what if he’s—_

She sits up, ignoring the agonizing pain that shoots through her whole body, and moves to twist the IV off when someone walks through the door. It’s a woman in scrubs, looking alarmed, and Liz is two seconds away from knocking her out when the door opens again.

“Red,” she breathes, because it’s  _him_ , and he’s okay. He only has a few bandages on his head, but nothing major from what she can see, and she is relieved beyond words.

“We’ll be fine, thank you,” he says to the nurse, and she leaves.

Reddington sits next to her bed, taking her hand and smoothing her hair back from her forehead. Her face crumples, and she says his name again, her voice cracking on the edge of a sob. “Red, I thought—I didn’t know—”

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, “you’re okay.” He brushes away a stray tear on her cheek with his thumb; she leans into his hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.”

Her own anxiety is mirrored in his eyes, and it occurs to her that he must have been the one to get them both out to safety. She knows all too well how it must have felt to see her lying there, injured and unconscious. “You’re here now,” she says softly. “That’s all that matters.”

She winces when she tries to move closer, and he notices immediately. “Are you in pain?” he asks, already moving away, presumably to get the nurse. She latches onto his sleeve.

“I’m fine. Don’t go. Not yet,” she whispers.

He looks at her for a long moment, then shifts his gaze to the bed, assessing. Then he reaches down to pull off his shoes, and she shuffles to the other side to make room, gritting her teeth. Reddington settles beside her, tugging up the blankets as she curls into his chest. He studies her face. “Are you—”

“I’m okay.”

He tucks her head under his chin and takes her hand again, stroking his thumb over her knuckles. She closes her eyes, her breathing even and slow, and falls asleep with the knowledge that here, she is safe.


	3. wed me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @filmsarefriends on tumblr.

“I still don’t think all of this is necessary,” Liz says, pulling back to look at herself in the floor-length mirror. Her hair is curled into an elaborate updo, courtesy of a youtube video and Samar’s nimble fingers. She angles her body to the side to look at the gown—God, the  _tulle_. There’s so much of it.

“I mean, just for a few pictures?” she continues. They even have the  _bouquet_. “Aram could’ve just photoshopped us.”

“I think you overestimate Aram’s photoshopping skills,” Samar says dryly. “And we want your cover to be as thorough as possible.”

Liz stares at her reflection, her features shifting until there is a different woman standing in front of her, her face bright and shining and radiant on her wedding day. Everything comes back to her: the nerves, the smell of perfume and makeup, the muted chatter of the guests waiting. It was a happier time, blissful in its ignorance. But her life back then has turned out to be just as real as the role she is stepping in now, so she blinks and shakes her head, turning away.

“Are you ready?” Samar asks.

Liz nods. “Yes. I want to be  _out_  of this dress.”

 

 

-

 

 

Red is on the balcony, gazing out at the city, when she steps into the room. It isn’t until she sees him all dressed up in his tuxedo that the reality of the situation starts to sink in: she’s going undercover with Red—as  _newlyweds._ Suddenly, the exhaustion from earlier transforms, and she’s hyperaware of the state of her dress, her hair, her makeup—oddly nervous, even though it isn’t real, to see his reaction.

“I’m ready,” she calls out to him, wincing as her voice comes out a fraction too high.

He turns around with a relaxed smile on his face that abruptly freezes and goes slack when he sees her. It’s as if he forgets himself for a moment, his face more open than she’s ever seen it for those few seconds. His mouth parts; he lets out a ragged breath. This is not the first time she’s taken him by surprise, but she thinks this makes the top of the list. His eyes wander from her veil to her heels, then come to rest on her face; he does not look away this time. The surprise gives way to a softer smile, but there is something else in his expression that seems off—a dark, unreadable edge that rings his eyes.

He takes a step forward. She does, too, moving toward him until they are standing less than an arm’s width apart. “You look stunning,” he says, voice low, and she’s heard his voice a thousand times, but something about way he looks at her, the full weight of that intense gaze on her in this dress, sets a shiver down her spine.

“I look like a loofah,” she says, deadpan. He laughs.

“You’re beautiful, Lizzy, trust me,” he says. “Besides, I rather like the dress.”

She cocks her head to the side, eyes narrowed. “You weren’t the one who picked it out, were you?” The question is barely out of her mouth before his expression abruptly slides into neutrality, and he’s turning to Aram, their photographer, beckoning them to get started. She gives him a suspicious look, but lets it go as they walk out onto the balcony.

“Okay guys, can you move a little closer? Liz, maybe put your hand with the flowers—yes, there.” Aram pauses, lowering the camera. “Liz, you’re looking a little stiff.”

She forces her smile wider and tries to relax, but she can’t shake off how awkward the whole thing is. It’s one thing to hug him when they’re alone, but it’s another to pose as his fake-bride in front of her coworkers. Samar’s been giving her a knowing look ever since she volunteered to do the whole undercover thing, and Liz determinedly does  _not_  look in her direction.

Red wraps an arm around her and tugs her closer, beaming brilliantly at the camera. Between flashes, he turns his head slightly toward her. “Getting cold feet?” he murmurs. Underneath the teasing note in his voice is genuine concern.

“No,” she responds after they shift poses, facing him now, his hands on her waist and hers on his shoulder. “Are you?”

His thumb rubs up and down her side. “If you are… we can always find another way.”

“I’m not backing out,” she says. “I just—I’m worried we won’t catch them in time, or that they won’t fall for it.”

“We will,” he assures her. “Believe in yourself, Lizzy. We can do this.”

There is no doubt in his voice, just an unwavering certainty in his eyes and his words. He stares at her intently; the smile is gone, and his head is tilted to the side. She runs their cover through her head: names, occupations, histories. First meeting, first date, first kiss. Looking at him now, it is far too easy to slip into character, to think:  _this is my wedding day, t_ _his is the man I want to marry, this is the man I love_.

Something in his face gentles, and his head dips closer to hers. He presses his lips to her forehead, and she shuts her eyes reflexively, leaning into him. When he pulls away, he reaches up and smooths away a stray lock of hair, smiling and looking at her like—

Like he’s in love with her.

Aram’s voice cuts between them. “Okay, I think we’re good! I’ll get these prepared ASAP.”

Liz steps back, and his hands fall away. Her eyes jump to the wall, to the ceiling, to the door, anywhere but him. “If we’re finished, I’m going to change,” she says.

She feels his gaze follow her as she leaves.

 

 

-

 

 

Later, Aram shows her the pictures they’ve decided on. “You guys look just like a real couple,” he says encouragingly, “They’ll totally fall for it.”

He means their cover, she knows. But Liz looks at the pictures, looks at her looking at him, and she does not see her playing a role, pretending—she sees  _herself._

She swallows hard.  _What have I gotten myself into?_


	4. a time-honoured tradition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last prompt fill for the ask meme! which was, originally: enamor me for @reddingtonsplace on tumblr. but clearly, things did not... turn out... that way. but, er, it kind of fits if you squint? maybe?
> 
> merry christmas & happy holidays to everyone!

 

It’s a few days before Christmas.

The stores are decorated with twinkling lights, festive music playing in a loop wherever they go. The mood is infectious; despite the stress of being on-the-run as a fugitive, Liz finds herself humming along to the songs and smiling at the children taking pictures with Santa.

There’s a part of her that still mourns for the past, of course. The holiday season never fails to bring up memories of her father—Sam asking her what she wanted for Christmas, Sam lifting her onto his shoulders to place the star upon the tree. (She tries not to think about Tom.)

As they walk through the street, they pass a small bakery. “The woman who owns it makes the most _incredible_ banana cream pie,” Red says, and he looks back at it longingly.

“I’m starting to believe that most of the connections you have are to chefs and bakers,” Liz says wryly. She’d always suspected he had somewhat of a sweet tooth, but she’s beginning to think that she’s greatly underestimated it.

“They’re very useful contacts to have,” Red replies seriously. They slow to a stop to double check the map for where they’re supposed to meet Dembe, and Liz smiles as he goes on to tell her of the many cafés that are apparently fronts for criminal business.

Over his shoulder, an elderly woman catches Liz’s eye and grins at her, pointing upward. Liz looks up—

_Oh God._

—and promptly snaps her head back down, attempting to shake her head subtly at the woman while nodding to Red at the same time, which results in a very odd head-bobbing movement.

“Lizzy?” he pauses in the middle of whatever story he was telling her, peering at her in concern.

“I think I see Dembe over there!” she says, pointing vaguely ahead of them, ignoring the woman steadily approaching. “Let’s go.”

He squints in the direction she indicated. “Are you sure? We’re still a few blocks away—”

“Then we better get going,” she says, resorting to tugging at his arm, and now he faces her with a small frown, the concern even more pronounced than before. Still, he does not argue further, but he only makes it one step before the woman catches his attention.

She speaks rapidly in a language Liz does not understand, yet there is no mistaking what the woman means when she gestures at the mistletoe hanging above their heads.

Red looks up, the confusion clearing from his expression. Liz flushes when he looks at her. “She says it’s bad luck to walk away from mistletoe without a kiss,” he tells her, amused. He turns to the woman, smiling and responding in the same language.

At the unhappy look on the woman’s face and the cajoling tone her words take, Liz can only assume what he’s saying. _Thank you for your advice, but we will not be partaking in this time-honoured Christmas tradition._ Or maybe, _we’ll take the bad luck over the kiss_.

Liz frowns at the last one. She hopes that isn’t the impression that he has—that she’d rather have bad luck than kiss him—but she already tried to drag him away unsuccessfully before he saw it. It’s just that they’re in _public_ and it’s _awkward_ and who even kisses under mistletoe now, anyway?

(Not that she would kiss him in _private_. She admits to wondering about it from time to time, and she’s woken up from more than one dream unable to look at him in the eye, and sometimes he’ll be looking at her in a certain way and her eyes drift down to his mouth—but that isn’t the point.)

It suddenly occurs to Liz that maybe _he_ feels that way, and the hypothetical spiral her mind embarks on is very much an unpleasant one.

She glares at the offending plant hanging from the lamppost. _Screw it_ , she thinks, and leans in to kiss his cheek—

—and his head turns toward her.

Liz freezes the moment she realizes that she missed her intended target entirely, landing right on his lips instead. Red, too, goes still. Both their eyes are open in mirroring expressions of surprise. In the few seconds it takes to get over the shock, she can’t help thinking that this is the most awkward kiss she’s ever had, and does it only count as half a kiss if her mouth landed on only half of his?

Then Red blinks, and she tears herself away. She wavers between apologising or playing it off for all of two seconds before he presses his mouth to hers, and all the words fall away. His hand cups the back of her head, his thumb skimming along her cheek. It’s a proper kiss this time, soft and warm and gentle.

He pulls away just as she begins to relax into it, and her eyes follow his mouth as he draws back. The look on his face is unreadable. “We should get going,” he says, his voice lower than it had been before.

The elderly woman, she notes, is nowhere to be found.

She clears her throat. “Right. Of course.”

They walk in a deeply awkward silence that is broken only when she hears him huff a quiet laugh. “What?”

He shakes his head, smiling to himself. “I was just thinking… that look on your face earlier, when I assume you first saw it—was the prospect of kissing me so horrifying?”

“No, it’s—I just—” she breaks off, flustered, when she sees him grinning at her.

“You changed your mind, though.”

“For _luck_ ,” she says defensively. “We could use it.”

He hums in acquiescence, facing forward. Then he says, “I’m glad you did.”

She glances over at him. They don’t speak again until they meet up with Dembe, but a more comfortable silence lies between them this time.

 

 

-

 

 

On Christmas day, Red surprises her by decorating the safe house they’re staying at with lights and a tiny artificial tree, and Liz surprises him with the banana cream pie from that bakery he mentioned a few days ago.

The decorations are for her, she knows. This is not his first Christmas as a fugitive, but it is hers, and he is trying the best he can to give her some measure of comfort. _Today is a day of peace and rest_ , he had said to her earlier. _Even the FBI has to take a break_. It’s a lovely gesture, and she resolves to take his words to heart.

“Is that where you went today? To the bakery?” he asks, taking out plates and forks for the two of them. She moves to go slice the pie.

“I thought I would go see if it was open,” she says. “I didn’t think it would be, but it was.”

“How lucky,” he says, his mouth quirking. _Lucky_ , not fortunate or fortuitous or some other word she would expect him to use, and she flushes at the reminder.

Then his face softens. “Thank you, Lizzy.”

She smiles. “Merry Christmas, Red,” she says, and takes a seat at the table.

 


End file.
